


Sufficient Volume

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Falling In Love, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Aziraphale has loved Crowley for hundreds of years. Only when Crowley goes out of his way to save something precious to the angel does Aziraphale believe his love is returned. But now he's left with a terrible choice...





	Sufficient Volume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/gifts).



As far as humans were concerned, a single drop of Holy Water could destroy a demon. Any demon – and any angel for that matter – will tell you that is simply not true. It stings, of course, and leaves a scar nothing can erase, but moreover it is a myth perpetrated by an entertainment industry looking for ever more dramatic ways of portraying the old stories.

Aziraphale knew Crowley would need at least half a litre to really be sure he destroyed himself.

+++

_London, 1941_

“Oh, the books! Oh…I forgot! All the books, they’ll all be blown to p…” Aziraphale trailed off, watching Crowley step across the wreckage of the church to wrench a leather holdall out of the grip of a dead Nazi hand.

“A little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?”

Aziraphale barely heard the words over the triumphant chorus in his heart.

_He loves me._

This was not a flicker of hope flaring to life, being coaxed into life by the cold London air. This was certainty, a fully formed blaze of understanding that whether he used the word or not, Crowley bore a level of care about Aziraphale's wellbeing that had nothing to do with the self-serving persona he put forth into the world. The demon had nothing to gain from the survival of those books. The only thing gained was Aziraphale’s happiness – and the demon had known it, and made it happen.

“Come on, angel!”

Crowley’s voice drifted over the rubble, pulling Aziraphale out of his shocked stasis. He stumbled over the uneven ground, finally taking his place beside Crowley in the Bentley.

“You’re very quiet,” Crowley drawled as they raced through the dark streets. The mournful song of the air raid alarms was drowning out the pounding of Aziraphale’s heart; it was distracting, having to concentrate on a conversation as well.

_He loves me. He loves me._

“Close call,” Aziraphale managed with a brief smile. “Thank you for the lift.” He made to step out of the car, but Crowley spoke.

“Stay safe.” The words were delivered casually, without even a glance at his passenger, and perhaps yesterday Aziraphale might not have looked behind the façade. Today, he was different. Today he saw the genuine care of an angel who did not fall but sauntered, reluctantly rebranded as ‘demon’.

_They couldn’t change your soul._

“You too,” Aziraphale said quietly. He shut the car door with care, standing in the street until the Bentley was out of sight.

Sitting in the dark of his bookshop, a glass of wine in hand, Aziraphale tried to work through something that had niggled at the back of his mind for a long time. He had assumed Crowley approached him for the holy water out of desperation – who else did he know that could do it for him? Surely, if he wanted to, he could simply walk into a church and help himself? End it there and then, should he feel the need so desperately.

But as Aziraphale reconsidered, his new piece of knowledge coloured his conclusions. They shifted in the light, changing.

What if he was the only one Crowley could trust? Humans were notoriously unreliable and self-serving, not to mention the awkward questions. If he genuinely wanted the holy water as a back-up plan, walking into a church and taking some would not be an option. Which left…Aziraphale.

Sipping his wine, another question occurred to the angel. What could be so bad a demon would rather cease to exist than endure?

“What if it all goes wrong?”

That had been his question. Aziraphale had assumed he meant, ‘What if Heaven wins the war?’, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if he meant, ‘What if Hell wins the war?'

Either way, none of it sat well with Aziraphale. He wanted to be enough of a reason for Crowley to remain on Earth, to endure the irritations of humans and the demands of Hell. And the potential End of Days – whenever and whatever that would be – could be endured if it was the two of them, surely?

He needed to keep an eye on the demon. There was a group – ridiculous though they were, they took themselves seriously. Aziraphale knew they could help him, especially if he paid them well enough.

 

_London, 1966_

“I just needa keep an eye on this guy?” Shadwell asked again, frowning at the photograph Aziraphale had provided.

“Yes, that’s him,” Aziraphale replied, still quite on edge about this whole process. “He’s considering becoming a Witchfinder but he’s wary. Won’t admit he’s heard of you, if you ask him.” Aziraphale leaned in. “We play a long game, Shadwell. It may take a matter of years.”

“And what does he do, this friend of yours?” Shadwell asked. “Looks like a bit of a shady character.”

“Ah, he can be,” Aziraphale replied, trying to keep up his jaunty tone. “Likes to organise night time capers. Pretends to rob churches, but all they steal is the holy water!” He laughed as though this was a big joke. His heart was beating out of his chest at the deception he was playing. Oh, he hoped the Almightly understood. He was trying to keep an eye on the Demon. That was all.

“Night time capers?” Shadwell repeated.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed. “He…he thinks he’s quite funny.”

“Righto,” the Witchfinder shrugged.

Aziraphale bade him farewell, then sighed. Every time there was a new Witchfinder, he had to have the same conversation. The title appeared to be hereditary, and for all the talk of ‘The Army’, he only ever met one at a time. Oh well. He paid them well enough, and this one seemed committed to the job.

_London, 1967_

“Mister Fell?” the young man asked, glancing around theatrically.

“Yes?” Aziraphale answered, distracted. Where had he put down his cocoa?

“It’s about the…job,” the young man said, with such emphasis on the last word it made Aziraphale look up.

When he recognised the Witchfinder, his eyes widened and he forgot all about the cocoa. “Oh! Oh yes, of course, do come in.”

“Your friend has indeed started putting the word out for one of these capers of his,” Shadwell said, nodding slowly as though it was only a matter of time.

“He has?” Aziraphale whispered, overcome with disappointment. _Oh, Crowley._

“Yep,” Shadwell said. “Friend of mine specialises in locks. Got word there was a job going, some secret thing to be taken from a church.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said faintly. _It will be dangerous. Not just the water, the humans…_

“So what are your orders?” Shadwell asked.

“I assume there is to be some kind of meeting?”

“Yessir, next Friday, over on Greek Street, near the Prince Edward Theatre.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale replied. “Perhaps your friend would consent to your taking his place. Let me know what time, please.” He paid the Witchfinder and hustled him out, locking the door behind him.

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel whispered. “If I had any other choice…”

_  
Two nights later_

It was agony, waiting for Crowley. Worse was talking to him, giving him the thermos so carefully procured. It felt like handing over an atomic bomb; the humans certainly had done a good job of creating tightly confined chaos with that invention.

“I can’t have you risking your life. Not even for something dangerous.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what Crowley’s expression meant, when he realised why the angel was there; he was too busy holding in his own desperate, begging words.

“After everything you said?” Crowley asked quietly, eyes locked on the gift.

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting himself to answer. The conversation continued, the few words he could get out were strained; he could hear it in his voice.

When he was finally about to leave, Crowley’s insistence on dropping him somewhere, “Anywhere you wanna go,” was almost the breaking point.

“You go to fast for me, Crowley,” the angel managed, before slipping out of the car and across the street.

He wanted to be followed; he was relieved not to be.

 _Please understand what this means,_ he silently begged. _It means I can’t live without you now._


End file.
